


To Find The Shore

by les Amis DCD (AlmostARealHobbit)



Series: vow after vow, day after day [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 85 percent of this fic is Niccolo being smug af and Yusuf being smitten, Established Relationship, Fear of Drowning, Fluff and Smut, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Married Couple, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Smut, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Weddings, ah there is also an unreasonable amount of foreshadowing and irony you'll likely hate me for, here you go, i say you're welcome, i told you that if you tried hard enough sex could be a wedding ceremony, talk about drowning, they're married and yet they get married again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD
Summary: “You can’t hate me,” Niccolò says,  “you’ve tried that already —and rightly so— and how did that work out for you?” Yusuf snorts, which earns him a peck on the nose from Niccolò. “You love me, desperately so. You can’t even stop marrying me.”“And I won’t,” Yusuf says.“Good.”1407 - Hangzhou - the eleventh time
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: vow after vow, day after day [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905343
Comments: 30
Kudos: 260





	To Find The Shore

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this [one-shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716229) as a standalone but everyone's love and support was so kind and overwhelming, I got inspired to write a series of prequels to share the stories of Yusuf's and Niccolò's weddings throughout the ages. I won't be posting the one-shots in chronological order. Also, these new one-shots _are_ prequels and they can likely be understood individually but I'd recommend reading [Vows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716229) first in order to fully understand the series, as it sets the tone and context of it all.
> 
> Many MANY thanks to [ashembie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashembie) and [areyoumiserableyet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet) for beta'ing this fic! And thank you to my love [Lyde](https://nicolodigenovas.tumblr.com) for translating the Italian bits for me!

_**1407, Hangzhou, China** _

The city is beautiful, unlike anything they’ve ever seen. Yusuf marvels over the architecture, the ingenuity of it all, and Niccolò is impressed, he really is, but the sight of the houses and streets half on the water makes him pale.

They’ve been sailing for so long and, while his seasickness has mostly cleared away, being on water still unsettles him. He surmises that this fear comes mostly from the fact that in two centuries of life and deaths, he has never died drowning before, and neither has Yusuf. From Andromache’s noncommittal hum when he’d asked, Niccolò assumes she has, but she doesn’t volunteer any more information, and Quynh only smiles at him knowingly. 

More so than drowning itself, Niccolò fears being trapped. He may drown and come back to life, but what good is it if he is stuck in the middle of the ocean? It sounds like the promise of unending torments and, each day, Niccolò watches the horizon from the bow of the ship and hopes they will see the shore soon. 

So when he finally does, only to find out that “land” here half hovers over water, he pales. Yusuf, who is smiling wetly at the beauty of the scenery, undoubtedly assumes that Niccolò shares his emotion. His ability to still be overcome by humanity’s propensity to build wonderful things that defy nature and gravity themselves is impossibly endearing to Niccolò — _the sentimental fool_. Yusuf gives his shoulder a squeeze of understanding, as affectionate a thing as they can give out in the open. Niccolò’s own feelings are very far from Yusuf’s wonder, his stomach feels too queasy to properly enjoy the incredible sights of the city and the green hills that stretch lazily behind it, but he welcomes his husband’s touch and takes it as comfort that wasn’t purposefully given. 

Niccolò manages to relax after they moor. The structures are solid, they’re incredibly well-built and there’s little chance for them to collapse and drag him or his family down under, but the itch and discomfort under his skin remain. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to shake it off entirely.

Their group is seen as somewhat of an oddity as they cross the town to find an inn. They stand out, what with Andromache’s sure and determined footing, Niccolò’s discomfort and usual clinical assessments of his surroundings and Yusuf dragging his feet to take in all the sights that Quynh shows him. She’s been here before, she tells them, some centuries ago when she was travelling alone, disorientated, trying desperately to find Andromache without knowing the way. It’s changed a lot, but Quynh’ memory is better than any of theirs, and she impresses them by pointing out all the changes in the city.

They take two rooms at the inn and explain that they’re married couples, which they _are_ , and if anyone makes any assumption as to who is married to whom, it’s their own problem. Quynh and Andromache sneak into their room, as do Yusuf and Niccolò, careful not to be spotted. 

Being off the ship has other advantages, all of which Niccolò intends on taking over and over again. Privacy is a luxury that is rarely afforded on the sea; such close quarters rarely allow for more than a few quick fumbles in the dark, with moans muffled against a shoulder and a fast and efficient removal of all proof of their passion.

It is thus no surprise that Niccolò and Yusuf are on each other as soon as the door closes behind them. Niccolò doesn’t know who moved first, he thinks they were in sync, as in all other things. Their thoughts and intentions are synonyms as always; whatever they do, they mean the same. Yusuf cupped Niccolò’s cheeks as Niccolò’s hand dropped onto Yusuf’s neck. The movements are different, but the aim is one and the same; they bring their faces together and open their mouths before they even meet at all. Yusuf nibbles at Niccolò’s bottom lip, gives it a sharp bite that he soothes immediately with a lick. It’s all a smart ploy, a diversion and an excuse for him to dive further in, to lick past Niccolò’s lips, to tease his lover’s tongue with his own. Niccolò retaliates as well as he can when he feels like his breath has been knocked out of his chest. He kisses back as much as he gets, and one of his hands moves upwards to tangle in Yusuf’s hair, while the other one travels south, flat across Yusuf’s back in a slow, amorous caress that ends on Yusuf’s backside. He clenches both hands, squeezes the flesh and pulls on tight curls at once; Yusuf moans into his mouth, a muffled but unmistakable whine.

Niccolò is a smart man, Yusuf would agree, because the gesture allows him to bring them closer together, to all but crash their bodies against one another, from head to hips. They come closer still when Yusuf decides to raise a leg and wrap it around Niccolò’s side, to press his heel against Niccolò’s backside. He sighs, then, as if finally pleased with how entangled they are. Between two kisses, two gulps of breath, Niccolò nuzzles his agreement against his husband’s cheek; if he had any say in this, if it weren’t for their damned moral compass and sense of duty, they’d never loosen their hold on one another. They were not made to be apart. Whatever their beliefs are now, he has no doubt that they were _made_ to always stand side by side, forged as two sides of the same coin.

They kiss more, they cannot seem to stop. Niccolò’s lips are both numb and alive from Yusuf’s touch, for the repeated brush of his beard against his cheeks, a rough caress of his nose and chin. Still, he cannot stop. He doesn’t think he ever will. He knows he won’t when Yusuf’s mouth begins its descent against Niccolò’s throat. The first feverishly slow drag of lips and blunt teeth against his skin comes in sync with a roll of Yusuf’s hips. Niccolò gasps, his body seizes and he instinctively holds onto what he can, a mooring point made of curls and clothes dirtied by sea air and long voyage. He’d lose himself to it if it weren’t for the grin he feels on his throat.

“You are a tease,” Niccolò says, breathless.

“You wound me, my love. Teases don’t make good on their promises. You think I’d leave my husband unsatisfied?” Yusuf says, and he sounds a little winded, too, from where he looks up, infinitely amused. His lips shine, as does his whole face, alight from finally being able to be open about his intentions, from not having to hide the fire that burns always for Niccolò, the one he tends to religiously, though the embers would never die anyway.

Niccolò kisses him again. Because he can, and because it would be criminal not to, and because he has missed it as much as Yusuf. His heart clenches tight on the word “husband”, which he hasn’t heard aloud and stripped from secrecy for much too long. Will the thrill of it ever stop? Ten times, he’s openly married this man. Will the delicious possessiveness of the title ever stop filling him with equal heat and tenderness?

Hips roll and meet again, and Niccolò cannot for the life of him tell who started it. Both their throats choke on air, as if surprised. Their bodies might have moved without their brain fully registering. This wouldn’t be the first time, nor the second, nor even the hundredth; the flesh that hugs their souls knows their bond as well as the rest of their being. It knows the call and the want. It knows their _need_ to speed up.

“What if I want to satisfy _you_?” Niccolò says, untangling Yusuf’s leg from where it held him trapped still.

Yusuf swallows visibly when Niccolò unwraps his arms to walk him backwards in the vague direction he knows the bed to be; he barely had any time to register when it was they came in. “Then I’m a lucky man indeed.” And he lets himself be pushed back against a bed he hasn’t seen. Yusuf trusts Niccolò anyway, trusts him with this life and the next, and he trusts him to take care of him in all the ways he might need him. Right now, he needs his passion, a more carnal love, but later, he might need Niccolò to hold him or let himself be held through the night. He might need his tenderness and whispered words of reassurance, because for all his experience and never-ending wonder, Yusuf fears sometimes. They all get overwhelmed by the world for one reason or another, especially as they feel like they only belong to its margins more and more with each passing day.

With Yusuf lying on his back, Niccolò lunges forward. Another night, he might have taken his time to take in the sight properly, to appreciate it for the beauty and privilege it is, Yusuf lying there, vulnerable, eyes bright, clothes rumpled and smile so wide. Tonight he doesn’t have time to count his blessings, he wants to enjoy them. 

Niccolò kneels on the bed, a knee bracketing each side of his husband’s hips, and he leans forward. His hair, long from the trip, falls forward with the rest of him and encircles Yusuf’s face. Yusuf chuckles, and runs a loving hand through it to push it back while the other squeezes Niccolò’s hip tightly, urging him on. 

“We stink,” Niccolò comments suddenly as he eyes Yusuf’s tunic, which he is starting to pull on. 

Yusuf lifts his chest helpfully and gets it off. “We really do, but there’s no point cleaning off now when we’ll be working a sweat in a minute anyway.”

“You just like me a little rugged,” Niccolò jokes. He pulls his own tunic off and his blood runs faster and warmer from the appreciative look Yusuf gives to his chest. That’s nothing he hasn’t seen a thousand times already, nothing he won’t see a thousand more, but his eyes run across Niccolò’s figure with unabashed hunger.

Yusuf smirks. “What if I do?”

“Then you should probably enjoy it while it lasts.”

Yusuf doesn't need to be told twice. Before he knows it, Niccolò is pulled down for another rough kiss that has their teeth clashing almost painfully, one that moves to Niccolò’s collarbone and ends in a sharp bite and an audible inhale.

"Can't get enough," Yusuf says, nibbling his way along Niccolò’s shoulder.

"Good," Niccolò says, and he starts pulling at the laces on Yusuf's breeches.

The laces come free, Niccolò’s hand dives inside and he doesn’t waste any time —there will be other days for long, agonising, fleeting touch. Yusuf is ready for him, impatient, his cock more than half hard already, and his breathing catches in his throat the instant Niccolò touches him. 

Yusuf’s skin is hot inside Niccolò’s palm. Yusuf lets out a noise that’s half a whine, half a groan, and Niccolò wraps his fingers around him fully. He knows the shape of him perfectly, knows where to squeeze, where to twist his wrist, where to run his calloused thumb. On his way up, Yusuf cants his hips, follows his hand desperately and Niccolò doesn’t try to stop him; there is nothing he’d deny him.

Niccolò looks up —he’d dropped his gaze to take in the shape of his husband, to see him fit in the cradle of his hand. When he brings his eyes back up, he sees Yusuf hasn’t stopped watching Niccolò’s face. He could have slipped a gaze to where Niccolò’s hand is still rubbing against his cock, just a tad too dry, just the perfect pressure, but Niccolò has the innate knowledge that Yusuf’s eyes haven’t left his face. He gets the confirmation when Yusuf grins at him cheekily. 

“Your touch on me is a sight to behold, habibi, but I’ll never get enough of _you_ ,” he tells him before betraying his words for the split second he takes to blink violently and keep his eyes shut at a particularly masterful twist of Niccolò’s wrist. Niccolò doesn’t blame him; he feels a warm rush of pride and lust course through him. His husband is a beautiful man, he knows most would agree with him, never misses the appreciative looks he receives wherever they go, but he’s never more beautiful than he is in his pleasure.

“Would you like to see both at once? That can be arranged.”

Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “How generous of y—” he stops to gasp, cut off by the renewed shock of warmth on his cock, by Niccolò’s mouth closing around half its length.

Niccolò doesn’t try to take him too deep, Yusuf usually favours a smart tongue over the depth of a throat, so he sets to work. Niccolò laves his cock with great attention, makes up for the earlier dryness, a wet and wordless apology that Yusuf seems to accept with great enthusiasm, if the rough little hums that Yusuf gives with each broad stroke of Niccolò’s tongue are any indication. When Niccolò simultaneously hollows his cheeks, tongues at the tip of his cock and fondles his balls, Yusuf’s hands fly to Niccolò’s hair and cup the back of Niccolò’s neck. Niccolò gives a hum himself with his mouth full, Yusuf’s fingers reflexively scrape at his skin in response. They do not look away from each other’s face. If he could smile, Niccolò would; Yusuf has lost his own smirk in favour of biting his bottom lip. 

Niccolò goes to take Yusuf deeper, but Yusuf stops him with a sharp pull on his hair that has him grunt and half choke on Yusuf’s cock. Yusuf pulls him off.

“What is it?” he asks, rubbing the back of his hand against his chin.

Yusuf’s voice has the breathless quality of a job well done and Niccolò cannot refrain a smirk. “I think you should get the oil.”

“Ogni tuo desiderio è un ordine.” Niccolò gives his thigh a parting peck before he stands, a little wobbly from arousal. He only just registers how tight his trousers feel, he pulls them down quickly, barely bothering with the laces. “Get yours off,” he orders Yusuf as he goes to rummage through the bags they dropped in the doorway. 

“Ogni tuo desiderio è un ordine,” Yusuf echoes, removing the trousers still bunched at his knees.

When Niccolò returns, he settles once more in the cradle of Yusuf’s legs. As his hands fumble with the slippery bottle of oil, he bends down to trail kisses over Yusuf’s thighs and nuzzle through the coarse hair there. He breathes in slowly, takes in the scent of his husband, so familiar and different from their voyage, yet practically unchanged. His mouth reaches Yusuf’s cock at the same time he brings a slick finger to his rim. 

“Ready?” he says, breathing hot air against Yusuf’s sensitive skin.

“For you? Always.” 

Niccolò remains shallow with his mouth, but his finger pushes in deeper. Yusuf is a passionate man, he has a quick temper, loves with his entire being a love that burns and endures, but in bed, he is quick to relax, to go boneless and loose. They’ve had time to practice and they share more trust than they know what to do with; Yusuf is never safer than he is around Niccolò, and he lets him in easily. The second finger is no harder, which Niccolò is glad for, because he feels himself losing patience.

There are nights during which they take one another apart with painstaking care and excruciating slowness. Just fingers, some oil and the desire to pleasure each other for a long, long time. But Niccolò is hard, painfully so, and Yusuf is all but shaking himself, they _want_ ; it’s been so long. 

Yusuf breathes out a broken “ _Niccolò_ ”, and Niccolò pulls back entirely, leaving Yusuf empty and cold. He grunts. “If I didn’t want you so badly, I’d hate you for leaving at all.”

“You can’t hate me,” Niccolò says, slicking his own cock with oil. It’s the first time he pays it any attention that night, so distracted was he with Yusuf, spread out and so very welcoming, and he could almost cry in relief, “you’ve tried that already —and rightly so— and how did that work out for you?” Yusuf snorts, which earns him a peck on the nose from Niccolò. “You love me, desperately so. You can’t even stop marrying me.”

“And I won’t,” Yusuf says.

Niccolò bends forward to claim a kiss for himself, a slow, languid thing, a well-rehearsed waltz of lips, tongues and teeth. Yusuf’s mouth opens easily, welcomes him as well as the rest of his body; Niccolò grins into the kiss, he’s made his point.

“Good,” he repeats when he draws back just a hair; their noses brush still. 

He doesn’t give Yusuf any more of a warning before reaching down to guide himself in. From the contented sigh Yusuf gives, from the way his thighs spread this much wider to accommodate Niccolò’s hips, he didn’t need one anyway. Niccolò’s thrust is slow enough, but it is determined, an uninterrupted slide until he is buried to the hilt. Yusuf is so warm, so _good_ around him, Niccolò thinks he could weep. It matters not that he knows this embrace of theirs by heart, it is the sweetness of Heaven and the burn of Hell all at once, if these places exist at all. He stops for a few seconds, he counts them with the loud beating of blood at his temple, though he doubts he should trust it right now —has his pulse always been this fast? He means to give Yusuf some time to take him in, to tell him to go on, it is a habit he doesn’t want to lose —he’ll die before his own impatience hurts his husband— and one he thinks is needed after such a long time since their last joining. Yusuf seems to be of a different mind; months at sea are long, and he’s waited enough. His legs wrap tightly around Niccolò’s hips, as do his arms around his back to dig half moons into Niccolò’s shoulders.

“ _Move_ ,” Yusuf croaks, and so Niccolò does, because he’s not cruel and because he is reborn over and over only to hear this word breathed into his ear.

Niccolò pulls back almost entirely and dives forward in time with Yusuf’s sharp intake of air. His movements are sure, his strokes of a slow pace that allows them to feel it all, to take it in. They are long and deep and Yusuf, warm, lovely and _trembling_ Yusuf, holds on tight to his chest, pushes back on his cock and _never once_ looks away from Niccolò’s face. He kisses him again with his eyes open, they cross a little, but Yusuf doesn’t shut his either. He nips at Niccolò’s lower lip and doesn’t bother soothing at all; he pushes back harder and quicker. An invitation and a challenge that Niccolò knows he is up for. He gives more.

Niccolò grunts with each snap of his hips, which he hates himself for, because he almost misses Yusuf’s little sighs, or the obscene slap of their skin, the sound of their joining again and again. In time with his thrusts, which Yusuf commands ever harsher and faster —Niccolò complies, because he cannot say no to this gift of a man, and because he _wants_ him— the bed rattles, shakes like a boat on a high sea, and Niccolò stills suddenly. 

“Already?” Yusuf snorts. 

Niccolò doesn’t answer for a moment. He is still as stone, but his mind swims and his body sways dangerously, or so it feels. Yusuf raises onto an elbow and reaches up to cup Niccolò’s cheek; he knows that something is wrong. The movement shakes the bed once again, and Niccolò’s mind fills once more with the thoughts that followed him for long weeks on the ship. He is suddenly reminded that their room and half of the inn hangs over water. Any movement, any thrust and he could send them both under, trapped under the rubbles of the inn as water and darkness swallow them down.

“Niccolò, amore. Tutto bene?” Yusuf asks. All the heat of his voice has been replaced by concern, tender and cooling.

“I— What if— what if this thing gives out?”

Yusuf barks out a laugh, and looks only a little sorry when Niccolò half-heartedly glares at him. “Niccolò, you’re good, but not _that_ good. I don’t think you’ll bring down the entire inn.” He tells him with a soothing pat on his back.

Niccolò _knows_ he’s being ridiculous. He’s seen the town, it is solidly built, masterfully crafted and beautiful. He’s also seen the water underneath, it is calm and most likely won’t cause them any trouble, nothing like the seas they’ve faced on their trip before. His fear is irrational, but he _sees_ the bed breaking, the walls crashing down, he sees them plummeting down down down in the cold water, tangled in the bed sheets, the curtains, the floorboard and the ceiling.

His terror must show on his face, because Yusuf’s hands around his cheeks haven’t moved and he brings their foreheads together.

“Niccolò, tell me.”

Niccolò takes a deep breath that he hopes will be steadying; it doesn’t work, but Yusuf’s warm hands on his face do. “We’ve never drowned,” he says. “We’ve died so many times, but we’ve never drowned. Have you never thought of how awful it could be? Not just drowning, but staying trapped.” Yusuf exhales shakily, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows Niccolò isn’t done. “Deep water is so dark, you can barely see which way is up. I keep thinking when we’re sailing, what if we drowned and lost each other in the darkness? What if I was trapped there to die again and again, or worse, what if _you_ were?”

Yusuf guides Niccolò’s face to leave a long, dry kiss to his forehead. It is more resting his lips on Niccolò’s skin than it is a kiss at all, but warmth and comfort bloom through Niccolò immediately. The power this man has over him is unbelievable.

“The town is solid, my love,” Yusuf states simply. “But should anything like this ever happen, here or anywhere else, I promise you I’ll get you out.” Yusuf is a man of his word. Aside from his daily vows of love to Niccolò, Yusuf makes few promises, and he makes none he doesn’t intend to keep. “I promise you,” he says against Niccolò’s forehead, “I’ll break down the rubbles, I’ll keep swimming, I don’t care. I’ll bring you back to the shore. But we won’t get separated. We _can’t_.” 

Niccolò, still unmoving for fear of toppling over, of the ground crumbling under them, ponders over Yusuf’s words for some time. He processes them with the gravity Yusuf’s promises deserve. He thinks of the possibility of them being kept apart, in deadly water or in life, and surprisingly, he smiles. Yusuf is right, they _cannot_ be separated. They’ve found their deaths, all of them, by each other’s side, just as they’ve found life, all but their first one. Being away from one another is unfathomable, because Niccolò knows they will always find each other, no matter how deep, how dark the trap they fell into. 

Niccolò lifts his head up to look at Yusuf. There is a frown marking his brow, worry for Niccolò carved deep on his face. Niccolò kisses it away once before looking into Yusuf’s eyes, dark brown and deep and the only thing he’s likely to drown in. 

“You’re right, as always.” Niccolò smiles at Yusuf’s confusion. “I know you will keep your promise.”“I _promise_ ,” Yusuf repeats in a whisper. The word is too big to be spoken carelessly; Yusuf always treats words with the reverence they deserve.

“I know. And I think _you_ are the shore. Should I go down in the water, I’ll find my way back to you. I am sorry I ever doubted. But I _promise_ I will find my way back to you,” Niccolò vows with great seriousness and no small amount of tenderness. He knows what they are doing, this is their eleventh time, their eleventh union. He knows now to recognise these moments for what they are, a vow to stand by each other’s side until their time is up.

Yusuf kisses him, moves a hand to Niccolò’s hair, and pulls to bring him down and ever closer. This press of lips almost hurts from its intensity, its strength, and it robs Niccolò of his oxygen more than anything else they’ve been up to that night.

“I promise I’ll find my way back to you,” Niccolò all but gasps when they break away.

“And I promise I won’t let you get far enough that you might need to,” Yusuf answers, so sincere and earnest, Niccolò has to kiss him again. And again. And again. 

With each stroke of their lips, Niccolò feels his desire return, intensified by this renewed burst of love for the man he trusts more than anyone and anything. Yusuf, too, stirs in hunger once more. He squirms and rolls his hips tentatively and his breathing quickens in Niccolò’s mouth.

“I believe you wanted to satisfy me?” Yusuf says when they pull back.

Niccolò laughs, a great, surprised guffaw that is maybe louder than he should let out at this time of the night, but he cannot bring himself to care. He has a brand new wedding to celebrate and consummate. He pulls back from Yusuf’s warm body, only to snap back home.

“Quite right.”

“Finally,” Yusuf teases, but he is smiling and his eyes are misty enough that Niccolò knows he doesn’t mind their unexpected tangent.

Niccolò drives harshly into him as a half-hearted retaliation; Yusuf only laughs and reaches back up, wrapping himself around Niccolò once again. Niccolò thrusts forward again and again, and Yusuf doesn’t let go, pushes back into Niccolò at the right time, clinging tightly to him through it all.

When they finish, one after the other, a sweet echo of their vows, they hold one another closer still. Their breaths are short, as erratic as their pounding heartbeat, their sweat is cooling off with the mess between them, but they do not separate. There will be more time to worry about discomfort, cleaning off and sore muscles; they have nothing but time. Time and one another and a panting litany of “ _I love you_ ”, “ _Niccolò_ ”, “ _Yusuf_ ” and “ _I promise_ ”.

**Author's Note:**

> — translations —  
> "Ogni tuo desiderio è un ordine.” = Your every desire is an order.  
> “Niccolò, amore. Tutto bene?” = Niccolò, love. Everything okay?
> 
> —
> 
> As usual, don't forget to tip your fic writers in way of kudos and comments if you've enjoyed their stuff! It takes a second and it makes their day! Thanks a lot for reading!
> 
> You can find me on [my main Tumblr](https://brie-on-bread.tumblr.com) and on [my Les Mis/writing one](https://brie-on-bread.tumblr.com)!


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